We All Fall Down
by LaceyBird
Summary: My first proper multichapter fic. Based around episode 4, but trails away from it. Because we all love a bit of angst! Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: So I posted this last night, but I was so unhappy with the overall finish, I had to delete and try to polish it up – so second time lucky.**

 **This is the first instalment of (possibly) three pieces. I'm not sure if I'm any good at multi-chapter fics, so please bare with - it's a sort of experiment!**

 **Feel free to leave reviews – because that's what keeps me motivated. Hopefully I'll have it all finished and posted by the end of the week. I dislike posting WIP's but this has been on my computer for long enough now.**

 **All rights to respective owners.**

 **Lacey.**

 **xox**

* * *

 **We all fall down**

He wakes with the feeling that the day is going to be a good one; one where everything goes to plan and it all just seems to be easy. He's been lucky and had several of them lately, and he doesn't stop to question why. Instead, though he knows that he's wrong, he assumes it has something to do with returning to Bastion for the final stretch of their tour.

It's early; the pinkish orange hue of the rising sun stretches and blends with the softening blue that's left behind as the shadow of nightfall gradually retreats. Captain James slips out of bed and into his combat boots, grabs his towel and heads for the shower block so he can steal a few quiet moments before the men, and woman, of his section begin to stir.

Showering is a process that usually takes him no more than three minutes – a rule he's pounded into the soldiers within his charge – but the cloudless sky promises a day full of sunshine and ease; a mirror of the day before, and the day before that, and he ends up spending a few extra minutes under the barely warm, streaming water, and in the privacy of the shower stall, he allows himself to feel content.

The smell of fried bacon and sausages wafts through the air a little while later, making his mouth water and stomach grumble. Almost as if it's an alarm clock, the soldiers of his section begin to filter out of their tent, yawning and stretching, and already teasing with the usual smutty banter that passes between them. Captain James heads to the mess tent, where the majority of the soldiers are already lining up, and leaves with a bacon butty in one hand and an instant coffee in the other. He has no intentions of hanging around the boisterous men – he's pretty sure he's heard something about a sausage challenge, which really isn't his sort of entertainment. Instead he heads straight for his usual breakfast spot; a small space behind the Pizza Hut cabin, where the noise is minimal and the morning rays are caught perfectly.

She's already there by the time he gets there, which surprises him, because she's no morning person.

Private Dawes is sitting on top of the large generator cage, knees pulled up to her chest, hands cradling a steaming cup, eyes closed and face turned to the sky as she soaks up as much sun as possible. As if she can sense him watching her, she turns to him and smiles, all teeth and dimples, and he can't help but smile back. His eyes stay locked on her, even after she's looked away and shimmied over a little to make room for him to sit with her; which, of course, he does, as he has done for too many mornings to count, now.

It's a new routine he welcomes eagerly, because there's something almost intimate about spending the first few moments of her day with her; when he can still see sleep in her eyes, when her chocolate tresses fall loosely around her shoulders, when she's happy to sit in silence because she's not quite awake; it's like her guard is down and she's completely bare to him.

He may have only known Dawes for five months, but there are feelings that run far deeper for her than he'd ever felt for his wife, Rebecca; a fact that makes him angry – at himself, at her, at the whole damn situation. But if there's one thing he prizes himself on, it's his ability to mute the little voice in his head that tells him he's being devastatingly unfair to the woman – the mother of his child – that's waited at home for his return for the entirety of four damn tours. He may have been willing to be painstakingly ignorant to their dying marriage, but apparently she wasn't. Part of him had hoped that if he could just make it through another tour, it'd all smooth out and be okay. The divorce papers that had finally arrived yesterday had proved his theory wrong.

And it's those papers that haunt him as Dawes stands before him later that morning, boldly flirting within earshot of his section, and he knows she can see the doubt in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and when she asks if he regrets this, her, he cant answer, because it's not her he doubts, but himself, and they agreed to wait out so he's not having this conversation here. So instead, he orders her to get ready for their mission, and he walks away, tries to place distance between himself and the guilt and it's not until he's left her standing there, staring after him, that he realises he wants anything but distance.

He kits up.

The mission reads easy on paper. The location has been marked on their map, and the ANA are positive they can be there within twenty minutes. Dawes sits opposite him, and her knees knock against his with each bump in the gritty road, but he can tell from watching her that she's anywhere but here. Her attention is focused on the retreating horizon barely visible through the grated window, and her brow creases with worry. It takes every bit of his restraint not to reach over and smooth the lines out with his thumb.

As if she can feel his gaze on her, she turns to him. "Reckon they're expectin' us, Sir?" He can see the fear there, etched in her irises.

"Let's hope not," he returns, and she nods, but he can tell it's done nothing to reprieve the anxiety that's tormenting her. "We'll be in and out," he promises.

And he's right.

The intel was bad, Badrais continues to allude them and Dawes was struck by a volatile insurgent, but they've put a stop to a small terrorist cell dedicated to building IED's and have detained three insurgents without any gun fire, so that still makes for a good day in Captain James' book. Six of the eight ANA soldiers stay behind whilst they await another vehicle, and he and Dawes head back with the other two within thirty minutes of arriving.

Large, rolling grey clouds begin to fill the sky a few minutes into the return journey, and though the sun is being swallowed by the ominous sky, the heat doesn't let up. The humidity rises, and if they were uncomfortable before, it's even worse now. He wishes for his air conditioned hut and to strip himself of his heavy kit.

When small, scattered raindrops begin to fall from the darkening sky, and a low grumble of thunder is heard somewhere in the distance, Dawes turns to Captain James and smirks.

"Well, who'd have thought it, ay, Boss?"

He begins to smile back, a witty remark on the tip of his tongue, but everything is suddenly jerking sideways, wrenching his body to the right, and then he's violently thrust forwards, limbs flailing like a ragdoll on a spin cycle. His ears fill with the sound of the world ending; loud and booming, and he can hear Dawes screaming so he knows she's in motion too, he just doesn't know why.

It goes pitch black, his head pounds and body throbs, and he can't tell which way is up and which way is down, and he's not entirely sure he's even conscious any more.

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So because I'm on a roll, here's chapter 2.**

 **Please read and review!**

 **Lacey**

 **xox**

* * *

 **We All Fall Down**

 _It goes pitch black, his head pounds and body throbs, and he can't tell which way is up and which way is down, and he's not entirely sure he's even conscious any more._

Slowly, awareness begins to filter through the darkness. His muscles are painfully tense, and his head is throbbing, and he's so confused he can't move. It's silent, all but a faint pitter-patter of rain hitting the sides of the vehicle, tinny and familiar, and it's enough for his mind to grab hold of, to use as an anchor.

 _What the fuck just happened?_

His pelvis aches, there's a pressure on his chest and when he tries to take a breath, it turns into a gasp. It feels as if the blood is rushing to his head, where brain pounds skull, and he tries to breathe slower, sort through the muddle in his mind. The air is thicker, choking him, and that smell; what is that? Smoke? Burning rubber?

 _Why the Hell is it so dark?_

He realises, slowly, that his eyes are still closed. He makes a conscious effort to peel is heavy lids back, and even through the thick smoke quickly filling the interior, the light floods in and threatens to blind him. It takes a moment to adjust, and even then, he's not sure what he's looking at. Everything seems upside down; he's staring up at the seat he's sure he'd been occupying just a moment ago.

It all makes sense in fragments; the vehicle is on it's side, and he's been thrown from where he'd been sitting. He gasps again, and the pain in his chest makes him wince and he can taste soot on his tongue.

 _We've hit an IED._

It dawns on him slowly, and he's still heaving in lungfuls of polluted air, and he can't help but groan at the throbbing in his temples. He reaches up to rub the pain away, but there's something wet there and when he pulls his hand away, his fingertips are stained red. He turns his head to the left and spots the ANA gunner a few feet away from him. His eyes are glassy, staring at the ceiling, and there's red everywhere, skin peeling from his burned face; dead.

Nausea swirls in the pit of his stomach.

 _Molly_.

He looks to his right, and he doesn't see her at first. The back door has blasted a little way open, and her upper half is hanging out, her head lolling out of sight. His heart pounds, and he ignores the burning of strained muscles as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

"Dawes," he says, and he sounds scratchy, weak. He sucks in another lungful of air and smoke, and this time, the pain is barely there. He starts to move towards her, pulling himself by his arms, but his boot is wedged between the join of two buckled metal benches. He struggles for a moment, pulling his foot and grunting with the effort, before he collapses back down against the cool metal beneath him.

 _Just stop. Calm the fuck down. Pull yourself together._

He takes another breath, choking on the smoke, and he knows that he needs to get himself out of here if he has any chance of surviving. He goes to check his radio, but it must have come lose when he was being thrown around in the blast, because it's missing. He reaches for the laces on his wedged combat boot, and with trembling fingers, he unties them. It takes a few tugs, but he manages to free his foot from the boot. Gingerly, with muscles protesting, he gets to his feet and shuffles over to the half open door. He pushes against it, and it groans noisily, but opens.

Dawes is half in and half out of the vehicle, her head hanging just inches from the ground beneath them, and she still isn't moving. The sudden fear the grips his chest is cold and unnerving.

"Dawes," he tries again. There's still an edge to his tone, and he still can't breathe right. He kneels down next to her and bile claws at his throat as he presses two shaking fingers to the medic's throat. He thinks he can feel a pulse, but what the fuck does he know? His hands are quivering so bad, he can barely feel anything other than his own body vibrating. "Dawes!"

She moves her head slightly, and groans, and it's the best damn noise he's heard all day. A rush of relief hits him, though it's still not quite enough; they're not out of the woods yet. There's blood on her head, cheek, neck, and whilst he's offering a little shelter as he leans over her, the rain is still falling, and is getting heavier, drenching her kit, splattering her face. "C'mon Dawes. Say something."

Her mouth moves slightly, and there's another groan, but her eyes don't as much as flutter, and there's that ice cold fear again, weighing down on his chest.

The smoke begins to thicken, flames lick at the underside of the vehicle and the tyres burn too easily, threatening to take the whole damn thing. He makes the quick decision to pull her free from the wreckage, the risk of burning alive outweighing the risk of insurgents finding them.

It's not until he's moved her away and laid her out on the ground that he sees the large shard of shrapnel protruding from her thigh.

 _Fuck._

He searches her quickly for her radio, but hers, too, is missing, and he'd find it funny if it wasn't such a disastrous situation. He glances around them, but there's nothing recognisable there, and he just can't get past the fuzz in his head to work out what to do next. The rain begins to fall heavier, the raindrops growing in size, and thunder claps loudly above them, making him jump, hand searching for the rifle that isn't there.

The shock brings him a small sense of clarity.

He stands, sorely, and limps his way over to the cab of the vehicle, the only part untouched by the vicious flames. The ANA driver is slumped over the wheel, body folded almost like a pretzel, skin greying. There's no pulse, but there is a radio. He releases a huff that's something close to laughter, and then, as quickly as he can, he calls in an urgent medivac.

Behind him, Molly groans.

Captain James hurries back to the Medic's side, taking the radio with him, and finds her helmet tossed to the side, and her hand reaching towards her leg. He drops to her side, catching her hands in his. He doesn't know a lot about shrapnel wounds, but he knows better than to try and remove it – especially if there's a chance it's hit an artery.

"Woah, hey," he says, holding her still. "Don't move, you're okay."

She groans, eyes opening, blinking against the falling rain, and he repositions himself over her to provide better shelter. She looks up at him with a bewildered expression.

"We've hit an IED," he explains. She nods, and makes an attempt to move, but he applies pressure to her shoulders to keep her still. "Stop. You're hurt." His eyes flick to her leg, and though her combats are drenched from the rain, there's no mistaking the crimson stain that's slowly growing in size. Her hand reaches for the leg again, but he catches it and brings it back up to rest on her chest. "Stop, Dawes."

"How bad?" She forces out, and she sounds weak, tired.

"I dunno," he says, honestly. "It's a piece of shrapnel." She nods at that, slowly, and her eyes begin to flutter as her body relaxes. "Hey, stay awake," he orders, and his eyes follow the trail of blood up to her hairline. Now that her helmet has been removed, he can see there's a small cut above her temple and a bluish knot that's rising fast.

 _She's concussed_ , he quickly realises. _What the fuck do I do for a concussion?_

His large hands cradle her face, and he strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the blood over pale skin. "Dawes, wake up."

She opens her eyes and blinks sluggishly, sleepily.

His hands still shake and all he can see is red against white. " _Please_." He doesn't care that he's begging her.

Glazed eyes lock with his, and she tries to smile. _Fucking smile_. "Yes, Boss."

And oh, fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck _everything._ He looks at the shrapnel in her leg, at her bloodstained clothes and skin, at the way her eyes keep rolling, wanting to close, and he just wants to grab hold of her, to shake her and scream at her to just stay awake. Because, oh God, she just can't leave him.

He can hear the sound of blades chopping through the air, fast approaching, and he'd be relieved if he wasn't so terrified. The rain continues to pour, the shower showing no let up, and water trickles over his face, dripping onto her, mixing his blood with hers. She keeps her eyes locked with his, and he can tell she's fighting the urge to give in to unconsciousness, and she's so fucking calm, it scares the living hell out of him.

"Don't do it to me, Dawes," he half orders, half pleads. "Don't you fucking leave me."

She nods slowly, tiredly, and her lids are just too heavy and they fall closed, lashes fluttering.

He slides a hand under her head, and looks down at her, really looks, and he feels so raw, so stripped back, he can hardly breathe. He leans forward, his cheek pressing against hers as he whispers into her ear. "I love you, Molly. _Please_."

Her brow slips, as if she's taking it in, but her eyes don't open again.

And then there are hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, and he's looking up into the face of strangers and doesn't really hear anything other than 'evacuation' and 'Bastion'. And because he has no choice, he lets her go and lets them take her.

 **TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Chapter three!**

 **So this ISN'T the last chapter. Turns out, this thing is going on longer than I had planned. This was the original ending, but I feel it's just too incomplete, so there will be at least one other chapter.**

 **Please leave reviews! And thank you to those that already have.**

 **Lacey**

 **xox**

* * *

 **We All Fall Down**

He doesn't lose consciousness.

He's inhaled a substantial amount of smoke, and his body has been banged about pretty good, so they strap an oxygen mask to his face as soon as he's on board the chopper. There's barely enough room for the two stretchers in the enclosed space, but the medics make him lie down on one, any way. It's not until he gives in, stops insisting he's okay and protesting that Dawes needs them more, that he really begins to feel the toll that the blast has had on his body.

One of the doctors gives him a shot of something – probably morphine – and a few seconds later, everything seems fuzzy and his head fills with cotton wool. He tries to stay awake, but his lids are just too heavy, and he drifts off to his desperate plea whispering in his mind.

 _I love you, Molly. Please._

* * *

When he wakes, his mouth is dry and head throbs, and he it takes him a long moment for him to realise where he is. The lights above him are bright and the white ceiling is tiled and he can smell disinfectant. He turns his head, and his neck is stiff, and there's a nurse beside his bed tucking a blood pressure cuff into the mobile SATS monitor. He tries to say something, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he's pretty sure he's just gaping like a fish. The nurse turns to him, and smiles softly.

"Ah, you're awake," she says, and she reaches for the cup of water on his bedside. She uses the buttons on the headboard to raise the bed and bring him into a sitting position, before handing over the cup. "There you go."

He sips greedily, sucking on the straw hard, and the water is ice cold. His eyes land on the cannula in his hand, then trace the disconnected IV line up to the empty bag of saline hanging beside the bed. Suddenly, he needs to pee.

"Private Dawes?" He eventually asks once the cup is drained and he places it back on the table. "How is she?"

"She's fine," Major Beck answers as he steps into the small ward bay, cutting off the nurse. Captain James looks up as a wave of relief slams into his body. The tension in his muscles dissipates in a rush as he relaxes back against the plastic mattress.

"You're sure?"

"I've just come from the room, myself," Beck nods. "She's got a concussion and smoke inhalation, and the piece of shrapnel in her leg barely made it to the muscle, so she's dodged surgery." He folds his arms over his chest as he comes to stop at the base of the bed. The small nurse smiles before leaving, and Captain James feels bad he didn't even get her name. "She'll be here for the night, and then she'll be transferred back to the UK for observation."

Captain James nods and swallows, audibly. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

"How are you doing? Do you need someone to notify your wife?"

He blinks in surprise at the question, though really, he should have expected it. It's basic protocol to alert the Next of Kin should a soldier be injured or killed in the line of duty, and this is his third tour with the Major; they're _almost_ friends, so of course he'd ask about the notification. And yet, _he_ hadn't even thought of calling Rebecca.

There's that guilt again, gnawing at his insides.

He clears his throat. "I'm good, Sir," he says as his hand comes up to rub at his forehead, where pressure mounts against skull. His hands still tremble, and there's a faint whisper at the back of his mind. _I love you, Molly._ "I, uh, I'll call her."

"Right, well," Beck says, almost awkwardly. "You've had it rough. You should get some sleep before the journey tomorrow. If this storm doesn't let up, it'll be a bumpy ride."

"The journey?" His brow furrows in confusion as he regards the superior officer.

"You'll be heading back to the UK with Private Dawes in the morning. You've inhaled some smoke and you'll need to be observed -"

"I'm fine," he cuts off Beck. "Honestly, I'm -"

"This isn't an option, James." There's an edge to Becks' tone that tells him not to argue. Instead, he bites his tongue and jerks his head in the affirmative. He doesn't get bid farewell as the older man leaves, but it doesn't bother him. For a moment, he's just glad to have some peace and quiet; his head is throbbing and there's an ache in his chest that even the pain meds struggle to mask.

He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and it all rushes back to him, as if he's still trapped there, suspended in a burning vehicle whilst time is frozen. He can smell burning rubber, flesh, and the blistered and bloody faces of the ANA soldiers haunt his memories. And then he remembers her, dangling from the rear, and the ice cold terror slams into him again.

His eyes snap open. His heart pounds in his chest, slamming against sternum, and each rasp of air he inhales seems to rattle his lungs and irritate bruised ribs.

He has to see her.

He gingerly slides off of the bed, and his limbs only protest a little. He's wearing one of those awful hospital gowns, and he's not sure if it's stiff enough to be paper or soft enough to be cotton, but either way, it scratches his skin and crinkles when he moves. There's a spare gown on the counter top across the room, so the first thing he does it put that on, like a robe, to avoid his bare behind being on show for everyone to see. Just the idea has his cheeks warming. Then, with his bare feet padding across the cold, tiled floor, he heads for the corridor.

The female ward is through the set of double doors at the end of the hallway, and he thinks he's gotten away with sneaking in at the dead of night, but another medic in army scrubs steps in his way, her brows furrowing crossly, medical files in her hands.

"And where do you think you are going?" she asks sternly. He glances over her shoulder, into the darkened ward, and he can see there's only one bay occupied tonight. The soft glow of a bedside lamp casts long shadows over the large room, and when he looks down at the five-foot-nothing medic, he tries not to look too desperate.

"Can I see her?" he asks. "Please? She's the medic in my charge." The medic's eyes narrow, and her lips purse, and he can tell she doesn't want to be breaking any rules for him. His tongue flicks across dry lips. "I was there...we were together...I just want to see she's okay for myself." And then, because he can see her stern façade slipping slightly as her eyes trace the stitches on his head; "I thought she was going to die."

The nurse's shoulder instantly relax and she lets out a huff of air, and he knows instantly he's been victorious. He doesn't let it show though, not for a second.

"You're Captain James?" she asks as she turns her attention to the file in her hand. She flicks through the pages, scanning the information.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"You're listed as her Next of Kin." It's a statement, but it also sounds like a question, so he just nods, because he knows it's not something that usually happens. But when he'd found Dawes crying on top of the toilet block the night after she'd saved Smurf's life, she'd confessed she didn't want the burden of worry to fall onto her parent's shoulders should anything happen to her. She was looking up at him with wide, red rimmed eyes, and a pink nose, and he couldn't help himself; _of course_ he'd offered to be her emergency contact, and he'd do it all over again if it meant he could gain access to her now.

The nurse chews the inside of her cheek as he regards him, and then she checks the time on her fob watch – it's a little after ten – and then she sighs.

"Okay, but you have five minutes, and then you're back to bed, okay?"

He nods, and it takes everything in him not to smile, or kiss her, or run straight over to the hospital bay. Five minutes isn't long, but it's better than nothing.

* * *

There's a small window at the far end of the ward, and the camp's light spark against the late night darkness. It all looks unfamiliar to him.

"Dawes," he says quietly, as he approaches the bay she'd been allocated. He stands at the foot of her bed, eyes tracing over her face. There's a piece of gauze taped to her forehead, hiding the laceration that had been responsible for the blood covering her face, her neck, staining her vest, there are shadows under her eyes and there's a couple of pillows stacked under her knee, propping her leg up. But otherwise, she looks okay; there are no machines monitoring her, and she isn't connected to an IV line, though he can see she has a cannula in the back of her hand that matches his. Suddenly, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, it all seems less daunting.

"Bossman," she says, and she sounds quiet, scratchy.

"How are you feeling?" He moves around to stand at her side, and his eyes flick down to her motionless fingers. He wonders, briefly, if it'd be too inappropriate to take her hand in his. He brushes his fingers over the inside of her wrist, instead. Her fingers twitch.

"Like a bleedin' bomb went off," she says, and he tries to smile, but his hands are still shaking and his heart is pounding in his chest, and when his eyes lock with hers, he can still remember the fear that gripped his insides right after the explosion. "Sir, you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Her hand comes up and skims his jaw, fingers catching on day old stubble. She applies a little pressure on his chin, and he obediently turns his head so she can get a better look at the stitches across his temple. She cocks an eyebrow.

"I'm okay," he insists and her hand falls away. "You're the one that got the shitty end of the stick."

Her eyes narrow and brow creases, and her there's a storm behind her irises. She huffs a frustrated sigh.

"I don't really remember," she confesses, shaking her head a little. He nods, and the pads of his fingers trace the veins on the underside of her forearm before curling around her wrist and moving down to her hand, because sod the repercussions, sod it all. He's already crossed the line, with his desperate confession. _I love you._ He swallows, audibly. "You sure you're okay, Sir?"

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah, you just...you scared me, Dawes," he says, almost stumbling over the rushed confession. Her gaze holds his and she blinks too much for it to be classed as normal, then she looks away.

He can see it then; she's remembering.

Maybe not all of it, but fragments.

When she looks back at him, her eyes are pained, and he knows for sure then. It was too much, he knows. It's one thing agreeing to hold out before acting on their attraction, but using the 'L' word was clearly too much. He wonders if anyone's ever said it to her before. Maybe they had, that was the problem.

"You remember."

She nods slightly; barely, but it's enough. His hands move from hers, dropping to his side. She blurs, his eyes sting, and he realises that they are wet as a tear escapes his waterline and rolls down his cheek. He looks away, embarrassed, and he tries to work out how this twenty-something cockney gobshite has managed to twist him up and reduce him to this. "You scared me," he says again, his voice gritty, as if it's all the excuse he needs for the sudden show of emotion. He drags rough hands over his face, wiping away his weakness.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I'm okay. I'm sorry."

"I know." He nods at that, sniffing wetly, before squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw defiantly. "I know." Firmer, clearer.

Dawes rests her head back against the thin pillow, her red rimmed eyes fluttering closed, and the exhaustion that shadows her face is reflected in the bone deep ache of his body. "You need to rest," he says, and she cracks her eyes just enough for him to catch the spark of green that reminds him of a stormy ocean. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Her mouth twitches, and her eyes close, lashes fluttering, and his gaze stays trained on her long after she's fallen to sleep.

He doesn't leave until the doctor escorts him out.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Here's chapter 4! Hope you all like it – seemed to take an age to get this done to a standard I thought it could be posted. Saying that, I'm exhausted, so I'll probably read through it tomorrow and think it's awful! Ha.**

 **Much love,**

 **A shattered Lacey**

 **xox**

* * *

 **We All Fall Down**

Captain James doesn't really sleep that night. He dozes in and out, but mostly he just feels tense, on edge; every time he's on the cusp of sleep, he startles himself awake, wondering where he is. He has his blood pressure and oxygen levels checked every 45 minutes, and he's running a bit of a temperature, but the doctor assures him it's probably just his body trying to deal with the stress and trauma of the day.

He's not going to lie, he feels as if he's living in the shadow of the terror and panic that had threaten to suffocate him the second he'd laid eyes on an unconscious, bleeding Molly.

Eventually, he gives up on sleep. His limbs feel heavy, as if his bones are filled with lead, and there's the pulsing behind his eyes that threaten a migraine. He lays there, gaze fixed on the hospital ceiling, watching as the midnight shadows move across the dark tiles.

He finally drifts off just as the sun begins to tease the horizon.

* * *

His body aches when he wakes a short while later. There's a persistent humming at the base of his skull, and his legs feel too heavy, muscles fatigued. He shuffles into a sitting position and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to wipe away the dregs of sleep.

There's a piece of paper propped up on the small bedside table, folded in half. On the front there's a pencil drawing of a bunch of flowers in a vase, and if it wasn't for the fact that he hasn't even alerted Rebecca that he is in the hospital, and that he's half way around the world, he'd think it was from his seven year old son, Sam. He swipes the makeshift card up in his hand, and opens the thin cartridge paper. Inside, there are at least two dozen well wishes; one from each of the soldiers in his section, and some other signatures of personnel he's come to know over the duration of his service. There's also a small note from Kinders explaining that he's been to the Captain's hut and packed up his belongings. And sure enough, when Captain James peers over the edge of his bed, he sees not only the two large bags containing everything he'd brought on tour with him, but also a fresh set of clothes and a wash kit placed neatly on top. It's enough to bring a ghost of a smile to his lips.

The violence of yesterday makes itself known as he moves to swing his bruised legs over the side of his bed. His back twinges, making him wince and there's a sharp pinch whenever he turns his neck or moves his shoulders. So he moves slowly, gingerly, taking a mental inventory of all of his injuries as he picks up the freshly laundered uniform and toiletries.

The shower room is bigger than the stall he's used to; it's almost luxurious. There's an electric unit with buttons and temperature control, and when he steps under the stream of decently pressurised water, he's both relieved and grateful to find the water steaming hot.

He loses count of the minutes he spends washing away the soot and grime of the previous day, but the water turns from grey black to clear a long while before he steps out from behind the curtain, and his skin is soft and shrivelled.

Before he pats his tender skin dry, he takes a steadying breath and turns to face the ¾ length mirror, swiping a towel to clear the steam.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the large red and purple shadow spreading over his left side, where ribs ache with each intake of breath. There's a comparable smudge over his right hip, spreading towards his groin, and the skin of his arms and legs are speckled with green and murky purple mottled patches. He doesn't turn to inspect the marks on his back, his shoulders, and avoids concentrating on the angry laceration above his eye; the brow will scar.

He eases himself into his clothes, the soft fabric a welcome change from the uncomfortable gown. This time, when he stares at his reflection, he looks almost normal.

But there's a pressure in his chest, like something is aching to get out, to escape him, and it wasn't there yesterday, it's got nothing to do with the physical injuries from the IED, and it makes him anything _but_ normal.

Everything has changed.

* * *

Major Beck visits him a little before noon, and it's more business than personal.

"We can confirm that the IED you hit yesterday was made by the cell you managed to disband yesterday," he states matter of factly. "And one of them has confessed to being Badrais son, so it's only a matter of time before we crack him and learn of his location."

"Right," Captain James says, and he doesn't know what to say, because it still doesn't bring him closure, doesn't convince him that it's enough to warrant the pure terror he'd felt when he thought Dawes might die. He feels Beck's eyes on him, so he nods once, seemingly appreciative of the update. "Thanks."

"How's your medic?"

"Okay," he answers. "I haven't been to see her, but I think she's okay."

"I thought I might update her. I understand she had an unusual closeness with Badrais' daughter. Bashira, is it?"

"She did," Captain James confirms. "But if it's okay, Sir, I'd like to do it."

Major Beck shrugs. "If you so wish. Have a safe return to the UK, James. Looks like the weather's going to hold out for you."

"Thank you, Sir."

The Major jerks his head before leaving the ward.

* * *

He doesn't get to see Dawes. He tries to sneak onto the ward after he's eaten some lunch, but there's a different nurse on duty, and she instantly ushers him back through the double doors, giving him some lecture about needing rest. She doesn't even budge when tells her he needs to hand over a mission update.

He decides he'll wait until the flight back to the UK.

But he doesn't expect to be strapped to a stretcher and made to wear an oxygen mask for the _entire_ journey. The plane rumbles beneath them, and his body jerks when they hit turbulence, and it reminds him of the way the vehicle had roared and grumbled the second the wheel had connected with the explosive device, and he can't breathe, because the air is thin and his chest is collapsing. He pulls against the straps across his body, because if he could just get up, just get out, maybe he has a chance of getting to Dawes, getting her out before the whole damn plane goes up in flames.

Faces appear above him, and they're saying words he can't hear through the whooshing of blood in his ears, and there's something on his shoulders holding him down, and oh, god, he can't see Dawes. Terror grips his insides.

 _Not again._

There's a sharp scratch in his upper arm, and everything goes fuzzy, the faces peering down at him blur, and then everything's going black as his body relaxes and he drifts away.

* * *

The first thing that filters through the darkness is the awareness of how still everything is. There's no longer the low rumble of an in flight aircraft, no vibrations travelling up through the stretcher and rattling his bones.

He slowly rouses, peeling back heavy lids, and though the glow from the overhead spot light is soft, it takes a moment for his tired burning eyes to adjust. He immediately recognises the surroundings only as a private hospital suite; the off-white walls are chipped, there's a screen beside his bed that's connected to the blood pressure cuff hugging his right arm and the pulse oximeter on his left hand, displaying statistics that he doesn't entirely understand.

He slides his eyes to the right, and there's a small window framed by thin, blue curtains. It's dark outside, and the cities lights flare against the blackness in the distance. He can just make out the bare branches of a tree a few feet from the window, and he can't believe it's already Autumn, slipping in to winter. It never dawned on him that the world continued to spin outside of Afghanistan, where the sun had shone for the majority of his tour. The temperature change will be yet another shock to his already frazzled system.

Something moves out of the corner of his eye, grabbing his attention, and when he coerces his head to shift to the left, he's surprised to find his ex-wife curled up in one of those tall-backed, uncomfortably hard visitor's chairs, her hand resting on top of his. His gaze locks with hers, and she looks as exhausted as he feels.

Her hand leaves his, and the warmth retreats, leaving a coolness in it's place.

"Hey," she says quietly as she unfolds her legs from under her, and shifts in the chair to face him properly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been slammed with a tranq," he admits, and his neck feels stiff when he tries to move his head a little.

"They had to sedate you on one of the flights," Rebecca explains, and his brow slips in confusion. He doesn't remember even getting on the plane. There's a pause, a few moments of silence as she allows him to wake properly, to try and shake off the sedation.

"Where's Sam?" he eventually asks, when the cotton wool in his head begins to thin out and it doesn't take as much effort to string together a coherent thought.

"At my Mum's." Charles nods, and silence settles again, heavily blanketing the space between him and her. He doesn't recall it ever being this much hard work between them, even when they'd hit a rough patch, or when he'd confessed to volunteering for yet _another_ tour. Maybe this is just the aftermath of it all; of putting the woman he used to love – and he still does in some way – through so much. When he allows himself a moment to really think about it, he realises she's put up with a lot from him. He isn't surprised it's gotten to be too much.

Eventually, Rebecca sighs, and she shifts in the chair again, so she's leaning forward, her elbows resting on her thighs. There's a storm in her eyes.

"Your C.O had to call me?" She says, and it's a rhetorical question that's full of betrayal. "Almost _three days_ after you were involved in a bomb explosion, I had some stranger call me, because _you_ didn't?"

Captain James closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the pain etched on her face; the same pain he'd seen every time he'd chosen to leave her and Sam behind so he could fight a war. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry." He understands why she's mad. Hell, if the tables had been turned, he'd be furious.

"We're divorced, Charles, but you're still Sam's father. I have the right to know if you've been hurt...or worse." The softness of her tone catches him by surprise. It almost makes it worse, the resignation. Part of him wishes she'd just scream and shout at him to make everything easier. To help justify him loving another woman.

"I know," he says again, returning his gaze to meet hers, and he hopes she can see the guilt in his eyes, feel the sincerity of it all. "I fucked up."

Rebecca sighs. "Four damn tours, Charles. We went through the hell of waiting for four damn tours, and the one time you get injured, and you had the opportunity to call, you just... _didn't._ "

"I'm sorry, Becks. Really." He holds her gaze until the fire in her eyes dims, which doesn't take long; it never does with her. She sighs, rubs a hand over her tired face.

"The doctor has said you can come home tomorrow, after you've seen the psychologist."

He nods his head at that, because he doesn't know what to say. His home is several thousand miles away, with a group of overly enthusiastic men. There's a new gnawing at his insides, a guilt that settles somewhere behind his sternum. He should be with them, leading them, not stuck here in a hospital bed, or at home tomorrow on the sofa watching daytime tv.

"Look, I haven't told Sam about the divorce yet," Rebecca confesses when she sees the hesitation in his eyes. "I thought it was something we should do together."

"Right," he nods. "Yeah, sure."

"So, can you, please, sleep in the bed? Just for a few nights; until we decide to tell him. I don't want him to suffer for our failure." She asks, and he nods at her request, because he owes it his son to make this as easy as possible. Rebecca turns and picks up her bag from it's place beside the visitor's chair. "Thank you. I'll pick you up tomorrow." She crosses the room, heading for the door. Before pulling it open, she glances over her shoulder, though her eyes don't meet his. "Oh, who's 'Dawes'?"

That catches him by surprise, and he almost stumbles over his answer. "She's the medic in our section. Why?"

"Huh," Rebecca huffs, indignantly. "Must have been a good dream."

And then, she leaves.

* * *

"Traumatic experiences have a way of changing people," Dr Whyte says. "It can alter the way you think, how you behave, your daily reaction to every day stimuli."

Captain James stares at the floor, eyes tracing the intertwining knots that make up the worn, faded blue carpet of the psychologists office. He knows that what the doctor is saying is true, because he'd been witness to such changes in some of the men he'd had the pleasure of serving alongside. He was just having a hard time making any of it relate to him, to his situation.

"One thing can change you this much?" He doesn't attempt to mask his scepticism.

"It most definitely can. Many of the men and women coming home from war injured, or missing limbs -"

"I'm not a fucking amputee," he snaps, glancing up.

"That doesn't make your experience any less traumatic," the doctor continues, emphatically. "Did you think that you were going to die?"

Captain James shakes his head. "It wasn't like that. I didn't have time to think about me. By the time I'd begun to process what had happened, I was already in the MERT, heading back to Bastion, and it was pretty obvious by then that I'd survived."

The psychologist hesitates for a moment, thoughtfully regarding Captain James, before consulting the notes in his lap. Then, with his voice lowered, he softly asks, "Did you think Private Dawes was going to die?"

Captain James tenses, his chest restricting as the question throws him into flashbacks of the burning armoured vehicle, of pulling Dawes' limp body free from the wreckage, of the blood and soot and smoke. The last remnants of fear clutches at his beating heart, stealing the air from his lungs. When he finally breathes in, it's more of a gasp.

Dr Whyte's brow furrows.

* * *

By the time the psychologist has cleared him to leave, the doctor's have prescribed and delivered the mixture of drugs he needs, and they've battled the standstill on the motorway for four hours, it's almost 11 when they pull up outside of the marital home.

Sam is already in bed sleeping, Rebecca's mother has taken the spare room and Charles had made a promise to his ex-wife. So, he drops his kit by the front door, and follows the blonde up to their bed. They both sleep fully clothed, and it's a stark contrast to when they were first married; when they couldn't keep their hands off of one another and they both slept naked. A small part of him misses the past, and regrets his ability to fall out of love.

He lays on top of the duvet, the journey has tired him out, and the familiarity of everything send him off to sleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow. The memories haunt his sleep, though, and it's not long before he's waking, drenched in sweat, body throbbing.

He lies there for a short while, listening to the quiet that fills the modest three bedroomed home. Rebecca doesn't stir next to him, oblivious to the torment that's plaguing his mind, his dreams. For a moment it all feels comfortable, normal. But then he begins to ache in a way that has nothing to do with the IED impact.

He gets up and heads for the bathroom before making his way down stairs; skipping the forth step from the bottom, because it likes to creak. He moves through the home without flicking on the lights, and he finds a little solace in the darkness.

The refrigerator is full of all of his favourite foods; apples and mango, yoghurt, cherry pie, carrot sticks, beer, and he wonders if Rebecca has kept the fridge stocked for his return. He grabs a bottle of water, because his appetite has diminished, and he stands in front of the sink, staring out of the kitchen window, into their large garden. In the soft glow of the moon, he can just make out the rosebush he and Rebecca had planted on their first wedding anniversary.

He downs the water and tosses the plastic bottle into the recycling bin, before heading back upstairs. This time, he sneaks into Sam's bedroom, and slips into bed with him.

He falls asleep and doesn't wake until noon the following day.

He spends the afternoon with Sam. They go to the zoo, and buy ice-cream, despite the biting temperature. They go home and play monopoly, and then Uno, and even though Rebecca hates it, they play some shooting game on the playstation together. But as much as he'd enjoyed the time with his son, as much as he loves and adores him, there's a piece to the puzzle he's missing.

It's like something has come lose inside, jolted free in the blast. He's changed.

So, he waits until Sam's tucked up in bed, fast asleep, before jumping into his car, and driving to her.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: So here's the final chapter. It's a really long one, but I just couldn't break it up.**

 **Hopefully this one will make up for the lack of Dawes in the previous!**

 **Thank you to all reviews – they honestly blew me away. It's the support that's gotten me through and kept me writing!**

 **Hope this is the ending you all were hoping for!**

 **Lacey.**

 **Xx**

 **PS: This chapter got a little...ehem...naughty, so should probably be rated M. Ooops!**

* * *

 **We All Fall Down**

He's hasn't prepared himself to see her again, which is ironic, because he's standing outside of her hotel room, knuckles rapping against the wooden door. A few moments of silence pass, and he wonders if she's sleeping because it is almost midnight, but then he hears a fumbling with the chain and the lock on the other side.

"It's me," he says, lamely, assuming she'll know who 'Me' is, and there's a brief hesitation, as if she's reconsidering her decision to answer, and then the lock clicks, and the door slowly creaks open. His eyes immediately find hers, and they're puffy as if she's just woken, and the tug that he feels behind his sternum is almost painful. He releases the breath he hadn't know he was holding.

"Hi."

"What're you doin' 'ere, Sir?" she asks, and her brow slips as if she's confused, but he doesn't buy it for a second. She knows.

"Don't," he says, and it's too strong to be a plea, but far too weak to pass as an order. "Don't pretend you don't know." His gaze holds hers, and there's a flicker of something brewing behind her green irises.

"Go home, Sir," she sighs, and her jaw sets defiantly, almost as if she's challenging him to refuse. Her body shifts a little, the majority of her weight baring on the left leg as she favours the right. When his gaze drops, he can just about make out the faint outline of a bandage underneath the thin cotton of her pink onesie. He glances back up.

"Please, Dawes."

"No," she cuts him off, and there's a flash of hurt in her stormy irises. There's a brief pause, as if she's doubting her next choice of words. "You should be with your wife."

It's like someone has punched him in the gut and knocked the air from his lungs. It's not like he'd intended to keep it from her, but he hadn't planned on her finding out from anyone but himself. Her knowledge of his marriage has completely blind-sided him, and he can tell that his reaction, his lack of denial, has quelled any doubt that she may have had about the authenticity of the rumours.

"How -"

"Does it matter?" she asks, her eyes narrowing. "You need to leave." She hops back a little and moves to slam the door in his face. He shoves his foot in the way, and it pounds against his boot with a loud _thwack._ "Move," she says, when the door rebounds back at her, and she catches the handle in her hand. Her eyes refuse to meet his.

"You're right," he says, hurrying before she tries to cut him off again. "It doesn't matter how you found out, but please, let me in so I can explain."

"Explain what? How you forgot to mention that you were _married_?" When her eyes flick back up to his, there's a fierceness there he's never seen before.

"I didn't forget -"

"You lied to me," she states simply, and in the openness of the hallway, he's beginning to feel vulnerable.

"No, I never," he says. "Please, let me in so we can talk." She sighs, her foot catching the door so she can stubbornly fold her arms over her chest. "Just give me ten minutes," he pushes, and he holds her gaze for a long time. When he think he can see the fire in her eyes burn out, he says, "I'll stay out here all night if I have too." She sighs at that, and this time, it sounds a lot like surrender.

She glances over her shoulder, into the small, dimly lit room, and then she's slowly stepping back, both hands reaching for the door for support. She allows just enough room for him to squeeze past her.

"You've got five minutes," she warns, closing the door behind him. "It's late. You should be at home."

He wants to say something corny and poetic, like "Home is where the heart is' or 'Home is wherever you are', but he's completely overwhelmed by her, by the intimacy of the small hotel room, by the subtle, lingering scent of her coconut shampoo and vanilla body spray. So instead, he comes out with "So should you be."

She snorts at that and rolls her eyes, and though they've moved further into the room, she stays standing, awkwardly balancing on her good leg. His eyes fall to the double bed, where the covers are rumpled as if she's been sleeping on top of them, and then over to the flat screen tv – the old movie that's playing is their only source of lighting – and then he notices the two bucket chairs accompanying the round table under the half open window.

"I needed some peace and quiet. Home's just too...busy," she says, shrugging a shoulder, as she watches him assess her room. "How did you find me?"

"I have a buddy in recruitment that owed me," he says as he moves around the bed, heading for the table and chairs. "He gave me your parent's address, and they told me where I could find you. Your father is an interesting character, to say the least."

Her brow dips. "You know that's stalking, right?"

He doesn't answer her as he stands at the window, his back to her, staring out into the night. The lights of London City twinkle in the distance, through the falling sheets of rain, and the sky rumbles ominously. He can feel her eyes on his back, watching, waiting, and as much as he wishes he could prolong the moment, he owes it to her to explain.

"We're divorced," he says conclusively. He inhales a lungful of the fresh air that breezes through the open window, and it smells of wet concrete."It was finalised weeks ago." It's the first time he's said it out loud, really confronted it, and it's almost liberating. He turns back to face her.

"And that's supposed to make it okay?" she asks, and there's betrayal in her eyes, but it's the shakiness of her voice that gets to him the most. "I'm supposed to just forgive you, like that?" She holds her hand up and clicks her fingers.

"I was going to tell you as soon as we were back at Brize Norton," he promises, and it's the truth. "I was going to tell you _everything_ , I swear."

"Everything?" she echoes, and her brow slips, before, slowly, realisation smooths it back out again. "Oh shit," she breathes. "You've got kids, 'n'all."

He contemplates her for a moment as he rubs a hand over his mouth, then up through his hair. Then he nods once. "I have a son," he confesses.

"Shit," she repeats, and it all looks too much for her as she reaches for the bed. She stumbles over to it, perches at the bottom of the rigid mattress. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

"This is why we were waiting out," he says, taking a step toward her, but it sounds weak, even to him. "You don't take personal onto the battlefield. You, _we_ , needed our heads in the game. Out there, in the 'Stan, I was your Commanding Officer, nothing else. You know that." His feet stay glued to the spot, and it's like his shoes are slowly filling with lead as he waits for her to respond. She stay completely mute, though, her gaze fixed on the tv, unblinking, and it makes him feeling uneasy. "Mols?" he gently prods after a minute or so, and it's enough to jolt her back to the room. She turns to face him, and he can see the fear and panic mingling across her face. He closes the distance between them, placing himself directly in in front of her, his feet either side of hers. "Hey," he whispers, his hands reaching up, smoothing over the cotton covered shoulders, up to her neck, his fingers stroking along her jaw. She stares up at him, silently, her eyes wide, glassy, and he's never seen her look so defenceless. (Except, you know, when she was almost dying in his arms.) His eyes trace over her face, lingering on the long lesion disappearing into her hairline, and the glue that's sealed it closed shines in the flickering glow of the tele. She swallows, and he can feel her throat flex beneath his palms, and her breathing is fast, raspy; she's struggling to silence it.

"We were waiting out," he says, barely a whisper, and she nods softly, her hands coming up to settle against his chest. Her hands are trembling, and he understands why, because he's surprised his body isn't vibrating it's way around the room.

"I know," she says, her voice low, rough, heavy with emotion, and he wants to lean forward and kiss her so bad, it's a physical ache, but it's still too soon. Instead, he presses his lips against her hair, so so softly.

"That IE changed everything," he whispers, his hands falling to her shoulders as his eyes find hers again.

Her hands slip from his chest, brush over ribs and settle on his waist. "It didn't change anything, Boss."

He shakes his head in disagreement, because he doesn't believe that for a second. He pulls her into him, her small body fitting against his, and even after serving together in a war, she still feels fragile to him. She lets out a long sigh that sounds heavy with sorrow, and she fidgets a little, but she doesn't fight him, his embrace. It's not until she gives in, her body relaxing into him as her face buries into his torso and her hands moving around to his back, that he says,

"Let me stay."

She pulls back then, and her gaze holds his for a long while as she tries to decipher his request, the reasoning behind it. He holds his breath as he waits for her to say something, and it suddenly dawns on him that he has no idea what he'll do if she says no. She chews the inside of her lip as she regards him, and then, slowly, nervously, she nods.

He steps away from her, and the space between them feels cold and gaping. She shuffles around to the right side of the bed, and he heads for one of the chairs under the window, shrugging out of his jacket as he moves.

"You don't have to sit there," she says, almost shyly, and her eyes drop to the space next to her as she eases herself into bed, gingerly lifting the covers over her wounded leg. "If you want to."

He nods, swallowing, before tossing his coat over the back of the chair, and kicking off his shoes. He slides into bed fully clothed, and she turns the television off by the remote, plunging the room into darkness.

"I wish you'd told me, Sir," she says sleepily, and his eyes are beginning to adjust to the lack of light.

"I know," he whispers, and he stretches out on his side, inching his body a little closer so he can comfortably rest an arm over her waist. She doesn't protest. "It's Charles," he whispers, his breath tickling her ear.

"Hmm?"

"My name," he elaborates. "It's Charles." In the barely-there moonlight, he watches her eyelids peel back, and her brows pull together as she twists to get a better look at him.

"Charles?" she repeats, and if he had the energy, he'd laugh at the disbelief masking her features. He nods, and her mouth breaks out into a toothy grin. "God, you poor sod."

"Well, I didn't chose it, did I?" he says, smiling at her blatant amusement. "Now shush. You need to sleep." There's an almost silent chuckle, and he loves the way it makes her vibrate, and she shifts her body to get comfortable again. He watches her eyes flutter closed, the ghost of a smile still playing on her lips.

"Good night, Charles," she whispers, and the way she says his name, so breathy and sleepy, makes him feel warm and fuzzy, and connected to her on a level he's never felt before. As she slowly drifts off into sleep, the tension of her body melts away and she relaxes into him, her curves against his edges, and he just can't follow suit, because he's too busy watching the way her lashes flutter, learning the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest, wondering how the Hell they've ended up here and why the Hell he tried to fight it.

The warmth of her body and the constant pitter-patter of falling rain eventually sends him off into a peaceful sleep some time in the early hours of the morning.

[]

When he wakes a couple of hours later, the rain has stopped and the sky is a smoky indigo. Molly is warm beside him, her breathing shallow and even, and when he moves, she moves too. He carefully removes himself from beside her, retracting his arm from her waist, and she frowns but doesn't wake.

His clothes feel old, dirty and well worn, and he could really use a toothbrush. He tiptoes over to the table, slips his feet into his boots, and writes a quick note explaining that he has to head home to sort a few things and to see his son.

He leaves the silence of their, _her_ , room, and hurries through the corridors of the hotel, and heads straight out into the bustle of London commuters.

It's a long drive back to Bath, and he can't help but feel as if he's still dreaming.

[]

"Oh," Rebecca looks up at him from her place at the breakfast bar, her hands cradling a mug of steaming coffee, the _Daily Mail_ spread out across the counter. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Where's Sam?" he asks, throwing his set of keys and mobile phone down on the kitchen counter.

"You've just missed him," she replies, her attention flicking back to the article she's reading. He looks up at the kitchen clock, and it reads eight forty five. He must have missed him by minutes.

"Fuck."

"You'll see him tonight, though, wont you?"

"I'll stay until he's gone to bed," he nods, before turning to head back into the hallway, his boots thudding against hardwood flooring.

"We have to tell him, Charles," she calls after him as he reaches the foot of the oak staircase. "Soon."

"I know," he returns, before heading upstairs for the shower, taking two steps at a time.

[]

"Are we going to talk about this?" he asks her, as they settle back against the headboard, and she presses _play_ on the remote. She picks the last fry out of the McDonalds container, before stuffing the wrappers into the brown paper bag. He tosses the packaging across the room and gets it into the waste paper basket. He keeps the victory to himself. _Score!_

She stays quiet for a moment, slowly chewing the fry. She swallows.

"There's nothing to talk about," she finally says, so quietly, it's barely a whisper. "You're my Commanding Officer; it's practically illegal. I googled it."

"It's complicated," he agrees, and she nods but she keeps her attention fixed to the TV screen. It's not until the end credits begin to roll that he decides to break the silence that's settled between them.

"Can I stay?" It's barely above a whisper, but she hears him clear enough. She let's out a long breath, and she seems conflicted. She swallows hard.

She nods.

[]

He's not usually a light sleeper, but the thunder claps loudly above them, and the room vibrates, startling him awake. It takes a second for him to get his bearings; he's still stretched out in her bed, arm encircling her waist, chest pressed against her, still fully clothed.

She's moved onto her back, and she's moved one of the pillows from under her head to under her injured leg to prop it up.

She's awake.

Her eyelashes flutter as she stares up at the shadows on the ceiling, watching them move as the raindrops trickle down the dirty panes of glass. He moves a little, and his grip loosens on her waist, but her hand flies to his wrist, keeping him in place. He twists his hand around so it's palm up, and her eyes flick down to it for a second, before she's sliding hers on top.

He captures her fingers between his own.

She takes in a deep, slow, silent breath, and he thinks that perhaps the constant pitter-patter of falling rain is haunting her, dragging her back to the IED, like it does him. But it's different for him, now; distant. Like he's far removed from the pain and fear of it all whilst he's laying with her.

It's her that makes him ache.

"Do you love me, Dawes?" He asks, because he needs to know, but he says it so quietly, he's not even sure she's heard him. Her gaze drops from the ceiling and she looks past him to the window, staring off at the lights in the distance. There's a long moment of hesitation, before she replies, equally as faint,

"Yes."

It's a strange feeling. He feels a rush of joy, and his body tingles all over, but it's chased by a heavy sense of dread, of complication. Nothing about this, about them, is simple.

He props himself up on his elbow and looks down at her in the darkness. Her face is tattooed with the shadows of the raindrops, her eyes are wide and he can see the reservation there. He releases her hand from his, and brings it up so he can cup her face, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath the blue-black smudge covering her cheekbone, and he can hear her swallow as she tries to contemplate his next move.

And, without really thinking about it, because if he did he'd probably decide it was a bad move, he leans down and kisses her.

His lips press against her, softly, just enough to feel the warmth of their bodies meeting, the softness of her beneath him, and then he's pulling back, eyes searching hers. Even in the bleak darkness, he can see the way her irises darken, can feel her breaths quicken. Her tongue comes out and flicks across her bottom lip, and as far as he's concerned, that's his invitation. He bends his head and connects their mouths again.

Her lips instantly part beneath him, and she exhales in a rush, like the damn of all of her apprehensions, her restraint, has broken, caved in, and she just has no control any more. She's kissing him like she means it, her lips sliding against his, slowly, deeply, and she tastes of salted fries and spearmint toothpaste, and he thinks, as her hands find their way up to his neck, into his hair, that she might just be enough to drive him crazy.

He can feel his breath coming in short, sharp pants, because he just can't seem to catch it, and his hand pushes up the hem of her baby blue tank top, his hand barely skimming over mottled ribs. He's revelling in the warmth of her body, the way she writhes under him and arches her chest into his. There's a sharp pang of pleasure that stabs at his gut and warms his groin when she sucks his bottom lip between her teeth, and her fingers graze the stubble as she traces his jaw and moves down to his neck.

"I want you, so bad," he breathes, and he doesn't care if it sounds corny, or clichéd.

One hand is curled into his hair, and the other is at his nape, fingers dipping beneath the neckline of his shirt, and she's panting against his mouth, but it's like his words have thrown a bucket of cold water over her, and she's pulling away. She tucks her face into his neck, and he can feel her breath on his pulse point just under his jaw.

"Molly?" he breathes, and his voice is thick, husky. She doesn't answer as she presses herself into him, and he can feel her breaths evening out, though her grip doesn't loosen as she holds on to him. He forces himself to relax, to lay back down next to her, slipping out of her hold. Her eyes open, and her gaze returns to the ceiling, and he thinks he can see tears gathering at her waterline. He slides his arm over her stomach, pulling her tank top back down, before slipping his fingers under the hem so he can trace lazy patterns over her hip. "Does your leg hurt?"

"A bit," she nods, her voice low, gravelly. She turns her head to face him, and a tear rolls out of her eyes, down her cheek and drips into the space between them. "Why me?"

He thinks about it, and even now, lying in the darkness with her, he's not sure he has an answer. "I don't know," he says, helplessly. "I just..." and he stops, completely at a loss for words. He wants to say _'_ _B_ _ecause it's you, Dawes. Everything about you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, it was you. It will always be you. And even when I knew it was against regulations, when I fought really, really hard to ignore it, I couldn't stop myself. But I give up now. I give up. I don't want to fight it any more. So please;_ _L_ _et me win you. Let me have you._ _Let me_ _love you._

But even to him, that sounds too much like the poorly written poetry that you'd expect to find in a cheap Valentine's Day card. He wants to tell her everything about himself, his life; about his marriage, and divorce, with Rebecca and how amicable it all is, and easy. He wants to tell her about his son, and how amazing he is, and that he's already a master at playing the cello, which is really weird because neither he nor Becks have a musical bone in their bodies. He wants to let her in on his dreams and ambitions, and share stories from when he was a child, what it was like growing up with two wealthy parents. But most of all, he just wants to hear everything about her.

He doesn't say that, though, because it's all a bit much.

"Because you're you," he says instead.

She doesn't reply to that, but she does tighten her grip on his arm, and shifts her body closer to him. They lay there for a while, in silence, her thumb tracing circles into the back of his hand until they finally drift off to sleep.

[]

When he's away from her, the world moves around him in a blur. It's like he's hyper-alert, and everything is crystal clear. The black and white world he once lived in is fading into technicolor.

He begins to pack his things up during the day when Sam is at school, and over the period of three days, he manages to move most of his belongings into his old room at Mum and Dad's.

He still hasn't told Sam.

[]

"We shouldn't be doing this," she says into the darkness a few nights later, as his hand trails up and down her ribs, tracing each long, narrow shape. His wrist accidentally brushes the underside of her breast, and it feels warm and soft, inviting. He swallows.

"Just one more night," he says. "Then I'll go home."

He can see it, the fight in her; the battle between what is right and what she wants. He knows, because he can feel it, too.

 _It was the IED explosion,_ he tells himself. _People don't act like themselves after something like that._

He wishes he could believe it.

"I thought I could fight it," she confesses quietly, and she sounds defeated.

"I thought I could, too," he whispers, his breath tickling her ear. "But then I thought I was going to lose you, and now I don't want to."

She turns to face him, and her nose is millimetres from his, and even now, after spending several nights with her, the dreaminess in her eyes catches him by surprise. Even by the late night moon, he can see the sparks in their depths.

"It would ruin us," she says. "They'll throw you out. Everything you've worked for..."

He shuts her up by crashing his mouth onto hers.

Her hand comes up and cups the back of his head, fingers tangling with his messy, brown locks, whilst the other rests against his neck, thumb grazing over day old stubble. There's a tug in the pit of his stomach, and he's aware of her body pressing against his, and he takes in a deep, shaky breath as he pulls away; a show of restraint.

Her eyes darken, and her gaze falls to his mouth as she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. She slowly pulls him back in, so she can brush her lips against his, teasing him, daring him.

He resolve goes out of the window.

He's only human.

The kiss is firm, and her fingers tug at his hair as he slides his tongue into her mouth, slow, silkily, and there's a soft moan that makes him light headed. He slips a hand under her shirt, fingers tracing over ageing bruises, leaving a trail of goosebumps as his knuckles scrape against the underside of her breast. He slides his mouth to her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along her jaw, there's another soft moan and it sends a lightening streak of heat straight to his crotch.

He wants to ask, as her body arches into him, if they're really going to do this; throw caution to the wind and give in to the very thing they've spent so long fighting, if they're going to choose each other over the first real love of their life – the army. He wants to ask, but he doesn't, because he doesn't want to risk putting doubts into her head, doesn't want to refuel her need to protect him, doesn't want to remind her of what they're doing and where this is heading.

He's selfish like that.

She's touching him, then, jolting him back to the moment as she lifts the hem of his shirt and slides her hands up over his bare skin. He trembles at her touch in an entirely good way. He moves on instinct, and years of practise, and sheds his clothes swiftly and silently. He hears the soft _swish_ of her top being thrown on the floor, and the mattress shifts as she carefully kicks herself free of her cotton pyjama bottoms and underwear. Then she's lying back down and pulling him on top of her.

He works his way in between her legs, mindful of the bandaged one, and lowers himself down, low enough to cover her bare chest with his. Her body is warm, and her hardened nipples brush against him, and when he looks down at her – at her flushed cheeks and sultry eyes – it's almost more than he can take.

He's uncomfortably hard.

He kisses her slowly, memorizing every last detail about her lips, her mouth, and her hands are all over, leaving trails of ice cold fire as her nails skim over his neck, his shoulders, his back. Over his ribs, his stomach. He pulls back, and she holds his gaze as her hand brushes against his cock. He sucks in a quick breath, hissing.

"Fuck, Molly."

"It's okay, I'm covered," she whispers into the darkness between them, and it takes a second for his hazy brain to catch on. In all honesty, he hadn't even considered protection, which is stupid, because he made that mistake eight years ago, and he ended up with a son and a wedding ring.

He leans back down and kisses her fiercely.

They're already breathing hard when he first slides into her.

She wraps her good leg around his hip, and he shoves a pillow under her pelvis so he can get a good angle without hurting her injured leg, and when he pushes into her slowly, she lets out a quiet moan. He pauses inside of her, letting her body adjust to him, before pulling back out and doing it all over again.

"Is this okay?" he whispers, and her grip on his shoulders tightens as she nods. He closes his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, on the contracting of his muscles as he tries to keep control of his body with each measured thrust. He's doing something right, her decides, because she's holding on to his shoulders as if her life depends on it, and the heel of her foot is pressing into his arse cheek.

She lets him take the lead, have all of the control, and for a long while, he rocks into her slowly, pressing deep, enjoying the low moans that escape her lips each time. Her breathing quickens, and she watches him above her with a spark in her eyes that sets his whole body alight. He's always had a good enough stamina, but when she tilts her head back, and moans "Oh God, don't stop," his body trembles and the air leaves his lungs in one big rush.

"Fuck, Molly, I'm gonna come."

She slides a hand up over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck to bring his mouth down to hers. "So am I," she breathes against his lips, and Holy Fuck, it's completely beyond him, then. He tries to keep at the same pace, but he knows he's pressing deeper, driving faster, and she wraps her arms around him, pressing her mouth into his shoulder as she rocks her pelvis with his, meeting each thrust with a loud moan.

He's already coming by the time she catches up, teeth sinking into his shoulder as her body trembles and twitches beneath him. He can hear his own, low groans as the waves of euphoria hit him, one by one, wiping out the world around him. He loses everything but the haze of pleasure for a few long moments, but he keeps rocking his hips lazily, feeling each aftershock like a bullet, until she tightens her leg on his hip, stopping him.

He moves off of her, keeping himself propped on his elbows as he lies on his stomach on the bed beside her, and he rests his head against her temple as he pants it out. Her fingers stroke the bite mark on his shoulder. It wasn't hard enough to break skin, but it'll probably bruise, and he kind of likes it that she's marked him as her own.

His eyes rake over her face; her sleepy eyes, her warm, pink cheeks, the messy hair. He doesn't think he's ever seen her look so beautiful, so unrestrained. It steals his breath away.

He leans over to her, and brushes his lips over hers, barely touching, before whispering, "I love you." Because there's nothing else for him to say.

She smiles and nods. "I love you, too."

[]

He drives back to Bath the next day, because he needs to see Sam, and he's made a promise to Rebecca.

After breakfast, she starts to clear the table, and Sam heads for the living room where his favourite cartoon is playing on the television. He gets up and follows after his ex wife, plate and mug in hand.

"Thank you," he says, handing the dishes to her so she can put them into the dishwasher. "I know this must be hard -"

"Look, I'm not going to ask, Charles, because I don't want to know, and I'm pretty sure you'd just lie to me, anyway," she says, glaring at him. She looks fed up, so he doesn't try to protest. "We have a son. A very intelligent, son, who's already started asking questions. We need to tell him. Today."

"I know," he agrees. "We will. I will."

"And I can't raise him alone. I'll still need your help, so don't think this is your Get-Out-Of-Jail card, because you still have responsibilities here."

It's his turn to glare. "I love, Sam, Becks. I'd never walk out on him."

"I know you do," she softens. "You're a good dad. When you're here." That hurts, but it's something he's been expecting her to throw at him for a while. To be honest, it's a surprise it's taken her this long. He kind of respects her for that.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, because she's right. He spent too many months running away from his family instead of taking on their problems head on.

"I'm not going to be the bad guy, here, Charles. And we're not going to put our lives on hold for you any more. You need to tell him, so we can move on."

He nods, and he can feel the hot burn of tears behind his eyes, but they don't quite materialise. She walks away, and he realises as he watches her turn climb the staircase, that she's been struggling alongside him, because of course she never planned for it all to turn out this way. For all he knows, maybe she had plans. Life plans, family plans. Maybe all of her dreams just went up in smoke the second she signed those divorce papers.

Maybe he's the biggest mistake of her life and she's kicking herself for it.

He takes a breath and heads into the living room. He watches cartoons with his son for the rest of the day, because it's easier that way.

[]

The sky is overcast, with the type of clouds that blanket the sky in thick, grey layers, refusing to let through much sunlight. There's a bite to the air, and even with the heater blowing, his fingers feel numb as they grip the steering wheel.

He glances at Dawes as he drives, and it's the first time he's seen her in the uniform for almost two weeks, and she looks stoic and focused and distracted all at the same time, as she stares out of the windscreen.

He doesn't know what it is - maybe it's because he's finally told Sam about the divorce, or maybe it's because they're heading back to Ketterick to see their section for the first time since Afghanistan and report back for duty, or maybe it's because he's made the decision to resign his commission, but when he's approaching the junction to exit the motorway, he turns off his signal, and presses on the accelerator.

"You off your nut?" Dawes asks, looking up at him when she feels the change of speed.

"Let's just keep driving," he says calmly, glancing at her surprised face. "We have to report back, I know. But let's just pretend we don't."

"You've lost it," Molly scoffs, but there's excitement twinkling in her eye, and her mouth is tugging at the corners.

"C'mon, Dawes. Let's just see what it feels like to have nowhere to be." He's trying to watch her and watch the road at the same time.

"It's only six months," she says. "Stop being a muppet."

She's right, of course. He's handing in his notice today, so all he has to do is ride a desk at a recruitment centre for six months, and then he'll be back on civi-street, and they'll free to be together. He sighs, his foot easing on the pedal, but when he goes to move his hand for the indicator, she reaches over and catches his hand in hers. She swallows.

"We'll turn off at the next one," she says. "Just this once."

He smiles, and nods.

And they just keep driving.


End file.
